Heavyweight Hitter
by The Feisty Rogue
Summary: Arthur was unsurprised to find Eames in a grimy Hackney boxing gym.


Arthur was unsurprised to find Eames in a grimy Hackney boxing gym. The other man's broad shoulders and ropey muscles had to come from some form of exercise. Eames had the build of a boxer and the temerity of one too.

He stood in the shadows cast by the flickering plastic LED that lit the room. Most of the lights had been switched off; only one remained. Eames was battering a punch bag, his knuckles wrapped but ungloved. He didn't have earphones in, which was a good sign to his continued well-cultivated sense of paranoia, but the slap of skin on canvas had been loud enough to drown out Arthur's approach.

It was tempting to stand and watch Eames in order to appreciate his physique. Most of the time he hid it under ill-fitting clothing, which made it all the more delightful when Arthur could watch him in shorts and a wife-beater. His many tattoos sprawled along his shoulders and wrapped around his biceps, rippling as his muscles moved with each blow.

Arthur wanted to lick the sweat from his skin.

There was a pistol in Arthur's hand, a Walther PPK he'd acquired upon landing in London. He still hadn't decided how exactly he was going to use it. It felt impersonal to kill Eames with a bullet to the back. Even more, it felt rude, although Arthur was the practical sort and wasn't one to let that sort of sentimentality bother him. He'd survived a lot in his life with his no-nonsense, pragmatic attitude.

After all, someone had paid him fifty thousand dollars to kill Eames.

The fact of the matter was, something inside Arthur had resisted even as he'd agreed to the job. He'd come here, somewhere Eames wouldn't have ever expected to find Arthur, to try to figure out why he'd not already shot the other man and been done with it.

Eames was relentless, rotating through a pattern of uppercuts and jabs that Arthur had seen him use to take projections and other unsuspecting idiots apart. He was still unaware of Arthur, who'd been silent in his entry. Not even Eames was foolish enough to turn his back to someone holding a gun.

Arthur cleared his throat. Eames jerked, spinning around with his fists raised; as if that could protect him. He straightened with a grin upon seeing Arthur. Something inside Arthur twisted at the sight of it. Before Eames could speak, Arthur held up his hand—the one that wasn't holding the Walther.

"What did you do to Ewan Keller?" Arthur asked.

"What?" Eames said. His gaze flicked from the Walther to Arthur's face and the grin was wiped from existence. Arthur's finger curled around the trigger, ready to spring into action. Eames was dangerous and he ought never to forget that.

"Hello, Arthur," he said, sounding cautious. "Ewan Keller… that's a name I've not heard in a while."

He sucked on his bottom lip and his gaze fixed upon Arthur's Walther once more. He shrugged.

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not," Arthur said, tilting his head to one side.

He'd not needed justification when he'd taken any previous kills. In honesty, he hadn't expected to need justification for this one. He didn't anticipate needing justification for any more he might take in the future either. He simply didn't care who he killed or why he killed them.

That thought settled something within Arthur. It was just Eames that was the exception, then.

Arthur uncurled his finger from the trigger and slid the safety back on. Eames watched his movements with a faintly bewildered expression upon his face.

"Who knew," Arthur said. "I do actually like you, Mr Eames."

Eames examined him with squinted eyes for several long seconds, before he pressed his hand to his heart.

"You flatter me, darling."

For once, Arthur didn't twitch with irritation at the endearment.

"You may want to take care of Ewan Keller," he said.

The smile on Eames's face was like a knife, sharp and pointed. "Oh, I will."

"Come find me, after," Arthur said. He took all of Eames in with one long look, enjoying the way that Eames basked in the attention.

"Who knew," he said again, very quietly. He flashed Eames half a smirk and took his leave. He had a trail of breadcrumbs to scatter.

* * *

Eames showed up ten days later with a knife wound to his ribs and blood on the cuffs of his shirt. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied and he was smiling widely.

Arthur felt lust sizzle in his gut and stepped aside to let him into Arthur's home.


End file.
